Bright Starry Banner

by Alden R. Carter

  Crofton gives the order for the battalion to fall back by companies. Four soldiers tumble Slemmer into a makeshift litter. The corporal in charge gestures at the blue-clad Georgians. “What about them, sir?”

  Eyes swimming with myopia and pain, Slemmer cannot at first focus on the object of the corporal’s gesture. “Shoot them,” he grits.

  Major General Lovell Rousseau is preparing his second line along the Nashville Pike. He positions Lieutenant George W. Van Pelt’s Battery A, 1st Michigan Artillery on a low hill where it can sweep the four hundred yards of cottonfield lying between the cedars and the pike. He goes forward again, pulls back two regiments of Scribner’s reserve brigade to protect the guns, and then dashes over to Shepherd’s brigade. King’s battalion is just coming out, badly cut up. Shepherd is fuming. “Colonel,” Rousseau says, “send your battery back and then bring your men out and form on the pike.”

  “I would prefer not to ask my regulars to retreat, General.”

  Goddamn it! Rousseau thinks. Spare me the bullcock. “We are not retreating, Colonel. We are taking a better position—one I intend to hold to the last extremity. Now, pull your brigade back, please.”

  Shepherd grumps, obeys.

  Rousseau would like to go to Beatty’s brigade, but there is no time. He rides back to the pike to make sure Shepherd’s battery gets into position beside Van Pelt’s. Satisfied, he sends a courier to Beatty.

  Scribner’s three remaining regiments have passed a nervous twenty minutes. Receiving the order to fall back, they forget their parade-ground training and stream across the cottonfield in a mob. Scribner, on the pike consulting with Rousseau, is humiliated. He dashes down the pike, intending to angle into the field to restore some order, but comes face to face with Major General George Thomas sitting his horse on a low rise, watching the spectacle. Thomas may be “Pap” to the men, but he scares the bejesus out of nearly every officer in the army, Scribner included. “General! I’m sorry, General, it looks like hell. But we didn’t—I didn’t—want the men concentrated in case some Rebel battery got the range on us. This isn’t a rout, General, no matter how bad it looks.”

  Thomas turns his great head to study Scribner for a moment, then turns his gaze back to the field. To Scribner’s infinite relief, his soldiers begin falling into ranks on reaching the pike. “See, General, they’re forming now. Do you have any additional orders?”

  “No, re-form on the pike,” Thomas says solemnly.

  Scribner salutes uneasily, rides back to hurry the re-forming. Thomas sighs, lights a cigar. I suppose the wonder is, he thinks, that we manage to resemble an army at all.

  Riding through the cedars to deliver the withdrawal order to Beatty, Lieutenant Arthur J. Billup, a former schoolteacher attached to Rousseau’s staff, represents one of the lesser vector forces within a problem of projectile geometry. Or so he comes to see it during the lengthy period of retrospection resulting from his participation in the problem. As near as he can determine, a Rebel cannon of unknown caliber has fired a solid shot from somewhere in the rear of the Rebel line advancing on Beatty. The vector represented by the cannonball is briefly interrupted by its convergence with a static cylinder (a tree trunk), the point of convergence occurring about thirty feet above the intersection of the x–y axes at the foot of the tree. Converted from static to vector force by the impact of the cannonball, the severed treetop gains velocity while traveling in a negative direction through the upper left-hand quadrant until it reaches the x axis (the ground) at a point of intersection with the vector represented by Billup and his horse. The result is a considerable amount of noise and confusion, little of which Billup appreciates since he has been rendered unconscious by the impact of a limb against the back of his skull. All this happens very quickly.

  He wakes to find himself spread-eagled on his stomach, a limb across his buttocks, a second across his shoulders. He has no idea what has become of his horse or how he is going to extricate himself. After a few minutes of struggle, he is pretty damned sure that he isn’t going to find the answer to either question any time soon, much less get the message to Beatty. Still, though he’s incredibly uncomfortable, he doesn’t seem to be much hurt. Someone will find him sooner or later. Until then, he might as well meditate on how best to describe his accident in terms of geometry. Should he ever be fortunate enough to return to the classroom, his students may find the example enlivening to an otherwise dreary subject. Then and now, it will help to pass the time.

  Pat Cleburne reads the last line of the message from Hardee again: The moment of glory is upon us, Patrick. Cleburne would like to believe, but he doubts. If we could just see what lies between us and the pike, he thinks. But first we have to plow through more of this damned forest, and my men are already as exhausted as I’ve ever seen them.

  Cleburne’s casualties have been brutal, exceeding forty percent in some regiments. North of the Wilkinson Pike, he halts his line to reorganize, and then sends Lucius Polk’s brigade forward to probe for the Yankee line.

  Posted in the thick cedars halfway between the Wilkinson and Nashville pikes, Colonel John Beatty knows nothing of the withdrawal of Scribner’s and Shepherd’s brigades. As Lucius Polk’s skirmish line approaches through the open forest to the front, Beatty’s men crouch low, hold their fire. The Johnnies come on cautiously, breath steaming, eyes searching for movement. They are men of all sizes, ages, and descriptions. Yet what remains in the memory is an impression of lean wolfishness, as if in another manifestation these men had been of that lupine clan found in dark tales of sleighs, winter steppes, and bawling infants torn from mothers’ arms.

  Beatty’s men rise up, deliver a volley that seems in a thunderclap to sweep the woods bare of living men. In reality, most of Polk’s skirmishers survive, disappearing to the rear under cover of the smoke or going doggo in brush or behind trees. Beatty’s men tear cartridges in their teeth, ram powder and ball, steel rods rasping in barrels. Above the clatter of reloading they hear the Rebel battle line coming at the double quick, the pulsation accompanied by a rising gasp, hoarse at first, then breaking out in the high wail of the terrible Rebel yell that is enough to freeze the blood, the hand, halt a musket on the way to the shoulder, or to set a leveled barrel shaking so violently that the front sight blurs. Beatty’s men fire, hurrah, reload, and fire again. The Rebels give way, fall back. Beatty rides down the line, yelling for his men to cease fire, to save their ammunition. The men comply, squint through the smoke to make out the effect of their volleys. Yet the butternut fallen blend in so perfectly with the forest floor that, save for the cries and thrashing of a few of the wounded, the woods might once again be empty, untouched, primeval.

  Beatty sends couriers to ask Shepherd and Scribner for reinforcements, sends a third to petition Rousseau for a battery. The Rebels come on again, striking at the right flank held by the Union 15th Kentucky and its boy colonel, James B. Forman. Only twenty-one, Forman strides down his line, sword in hand, careless of the fire. His men, the greenest in a veteran brigade, hold among the rocks and trees until Forman suddenly staggers, sits down hard on the ground, and then tilts slowly over on his left side, his arms and legs curling up as if he had decided to nap amid the battle. The Union 15th Kentucky begins to tremble and, though the Johnnies are falling back, comes apart.

  The slight hesitation of the Kentuckians before flight gives Beatty time to swing back the 88th Indiana to protect his flank. The Rebels charge again; but, decoyed by the flight of the Union 15th Kentucky, they present their right flank at an oblique angle to the 88th. The Union volley tears apart Polk’s line, sends the remnants fleeing.

  Men on both sides slump to the ground panting, rocking, trying to regroup senses shredded by nearly an hour of fighting. Beatty’s couriers return, report that they have found no one right or left or immediately behind. As far as they can tell, Beatty’s brigade is standing alone against the Rebel advance. Beatty sucks meditatively at a tooth that has been bothering him since the day after
the army marched from Nashville, then turns to his adjutant. “It would appear, Major, that the contingency of which General Rousseau spoke has come to pass: Hell has frozen over. Issue orders to withdraw in reverse line of battle. We’ll try to hold together across the field.”

  Pat Cleburne has caught up with Lucius Polk. He reinforces Polk’s assault on Beatty with S.A.M. Wood’s brigade on the left and Vaughan’s brigade (lent him by Cheatham) on the right. The three brigades strike before Beatty can get his withdrawal well underway. The Yankees break and run. Beatty tries to rally them, but his horse is shot from under him and he can only scramble up, grab his sword, and join the footrace across the cotton-field while Van Pelt’s battery opens fire from the pike to cover the retreat.

  In the wake of the latest Rebel victory, a pair of Alabamans from S.A.M. Wood’s brigade pause by a shattered spruce to take a few minutes of ease. For more than a year, Jim Bundy and Jim Graffunder have shared their kits, their first names, the occasional whore, and a desire to avoid as much work and risk as possible without shirking beyond the limits of dignity. Pursuing Yankees across an open cottonfield is both work and risk: a task best left to greener boys.

  They have just gotten their pipes lit when a distinctly Yankee voice speaks from the depths of the foliage behind them. “Say, could you fellows give me a hand here? I suppose it means I’ll be a prisoner, but I’m too damned miserable to care.”

  Bundy and Graffunder have not lived this long without knowing when to move quickly and when to sit still. They sit still. After a moment, Bundy removes his pipe from his mouth. “What seems to be the problem, friend?”

  “I’m trapped.”

  “Under this here treetop?”

  “Yes, under this here treetop!”

  “Hmmm… . Got a gun in there with you?”

  “I’ve got a revolver, but I can’t reach it.”

  “Then you ain’t got a gun on us?”

  “No.”

  “You sure?”

  “Positive.”

  Bundy considers this, glances at Graffunder, who shrugs. They climb to their feet. Bundy spreads the branches while Graffunder trains his Enfield. Bundy squints into the shadows, makes out a spread-eagled form pinned to the ground by a pair of thick limbs. “Say, son, seems you’re in a bit of a ’dicament.”

  “Yes, and it isn’t getting any better as time passes.”

  “How’d you get under there in the first place?”

  “It more got on top of me than me under it.”

  “Figures up the same.”

  “Are you gonna get me out, or not?”

  Bundy looks at Graffunder, who shrugs again. “You an officer?” Bundy asks.

  The Yank hesitates. “Yes.”

  “Cap’n?”

  “Just a lieutenant.”

  “Well, that ain’t so bad. We might not help you if you was a cap’n, but lootenants generally don’t know no better.”

  Graffunder sets down his musket, and they begin wrestling with the treetop. “So what’s your name?” Bundy asks.

  “Art Billup.”

  “Not Lootenant-Arthur-call-me-goddamn-sir-Billup?”

  “Not in present company.”

  Bundy laughs. “Got any whiskey?”

  “No. Sorry.”

  “Any money?”

  “A few dollars. You’re welcome to it.”

  “Well, we could use a small loan.”

  They have torn their way through to Billup, together get hands under the large limb across his buttocks, and, with a grunt, lift the treetop. “Crawl out fast, Lootenant. We ain’t gonna hold this all day.”

  Billup drags himself from under the treetop, manages to stand. He wobbles a few steps, unbuttons his fly, and urinates a long yellow stream. He shivers. “God, that feels good.”

  “Any blood in it?” Bundy asks.

  Billup looks. “No.”

  “That’s good. Way you was pinned, I was afraid you might’ve gotten ruptured.”

  “I seem to be all right,” Billup says, flexing arms and legs. He buttons up, digs through his pockets, finds half a dozen soiled bills held by a clip.

  “Don’t you officers usually carry pocketbooks?” Bundy asks.

  “Sorry. I left mine with the chaplain back in camp.”

  Bundy sighs, starts counting the money.

  “So, where shall I go?” Billup asks.

  Bundy looks at him curiously. “Go where you want, Lootenant. We’re even.”

  “But I’m your prisoner.”

  Bundy glances at Graffunder, who doesn’t even bother to shrug. “Not ours, Lootenant. Try to stay alive best you can. That’s what we’re planning to do.”

  “Call me Art.” Billup extends a hand.

  “Jim. Both of us. You be careful, now. Try not to shoot us and we’ll try not to shoot you.”

  “Fair enough,” Billup says, glances at the sky to verify his direction, and starts for the Federal line on the Nashville Pike. When he’s ten yards away, Graffunder shoots him through the back of the head.

  Bundy sucks on his pipe as Graffunder reloads. “Never knew what hit him. Way I’d want to go.”

  Graffunder shrugs. “Dead’s dead.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Wednesday, 8:00 A.M.–Noon

  December 31, 1862

  The Federal Center between the Wilkinson and Nashville Turnpikes

  As Sheridan and Rousseau fight desperately to hold back the Rebel tide, pressure begins building on Negley’s and Palmer’s divisions between the Wilkinson Pike and Stones River. By late morning, Hazen’s brigade of Palmer’s division will hold the critical hinge of the Federal line in a modest grove of oak and cedar known locally as the Round Forest but dubbed Hell’s Half Acre by Federal troops.

  HAZEN AND BIERCE squat beneath a gutta-percha blanket held by four orderlies, a map open between them. While Bierce orients the map with his compass, Hazen cocks his head to listen to the sound of heavy fighting to the south. He lays a finger on a small rectangle denoting a farm not far below the Wilkinson Pike. “Our flank must be here or a little to the west, which means Johnson’s division has broken and Davis is giving back fast. What’s this farm called?”

  “Grisham or Gresham,” Bierce says. “It’s a hospital now. Johnson’s reserve was posted near it last night. Also McCook’s ammunition train. I spoke to his ordnance officer, a Captain Thruston.”

  “Well, he’d better be agile. Reb cavalry will be coming around the flank.” Hazen studies the map. “Bragg is wheeling to his right by echelon of brigades. But from the sound of things, Sheridan’s stuck an ax handle in the spokes. Until Bragg breaks Sheridan, our side will have a little time to set things right.” He traces a finger along the line of the Wilkinson Pike. “I suspect General Rosecrans is already deploying Rousseau’s division to Sheridan’s right, here, behind the pike.”

  “Do you think Sheridan can hold long enough?”

  “If it can be done, Phil Sheridan will do it.”

  “I thought you didn’t like him.”

  “I don’t, but he’s a fighter.”

  They stand, the orderlies stepping back hastily with the blanket. Bierce rolls the map, slips it into a case while Hazen stares at the battle smoke rising above the cedars marking Sheridan’s position a mile to the south. “Sheridan will give them all the trouble they can handle. He’ll slip, he’ll slide, keep them from hitting him solidly as long as he can. People think Sheridan’s a brawler, a little Mick who doesn’t know when to quit. But the truth is he’s a devious bastard. And he’s surpassingly ambitious, which people don’t understand either.”

  “Is that why you don’t like him?”

  “It’s why he doesn’t like me. He knows I know him.”

  Hazen mounts his horse. A sharpshooter’s bullet fired at a half mile or more sings by him. He ignores it, studies the surrounding fields. Unlike most of the Federal line, Hazen’s position lies in open ground, its left abutting the Nashville Pike a half mile northwest of the intersection of th
e pike with the Nashville and Chattanooga Railroad. To the left of the pike, Wagner’s brigade of Wood’s division extends the line through a grove called the Round Forest, over the railroad, and into the fields fronting Stones River.

  In the cedars to Hazen’s right, Cruft’s brigade occupies the remainder of the ground assigned to Crittenden’s left wing. Beyond lies Negley’s small division of Thomas’s corps: Miller’s brigade holding on to Cruft’s right and Stanley’s brigade holding on to Sheridan’s left.

  On Wayne’s Hill, a Rebel cannon plumes white smoke and a shell howls overhead to explode in the cedars to the rear of Hazen’s brigade. Bierce ducks but Hazen only glances irritably at the hill. “You must learn not to flinch, Bierce. On a battlefield you are largely as safe or as endangered from artillery fire one place as another. If you are unlucky enough to be in the wrong place, ducking won’t save you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “There’s still a chance we may advance this morning, and I’m concerned about maintaining the integrity of our line through that farmstead.” Hazen points at the scorched remains of the Cowan house some four hundred yards to their front. “Go have a closer look at the layout. Find me the best way through. Better take a squad with you. Last night, some of Cruft’s boys had a scrap with some Rebs over the farmhouse.”

  “I’ll go alone if it’s all right, Colonel. There’s not much cover.”

  “As you wish.”

  Bierce rides across the pike, climbing the slight elevation into the Round Forest. He tethers his horse in the rear of Wagner’s line and finds the adjutant. The man hesitates. “I’m not sure I can accept responsibility for your safety in Colonel Wagner’s area.”